


The Ghosts of Thanksgiving

by E_Salvatore



Series: Holiday CaKe [1]
Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: All-knowing Hetty is all-knowing, Cake, F/M, Happy Ending, Romance, Some issues, Thanksgiving, a bit of angst, yes the ship's name is CaKe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:30:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Salvatore/pseuds/E_Salvatore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I haven't celebrated Thanksgiving since my father died." She confesses into the darkness.<br/>"I don't remember ever celebrating Thanksgiving." </p><p>Shrouded in darkness, Kensi and Callen find themselves spilling out all of their deepest doubts and darkest secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

"I haven't celebrated Thanksgiving since my father died." She confesses into the darkness, breaching the silence they've been safely enveloped in all night.

He shifts a bit, prompting the covers that had been level with her chest to slide down to her hips. She considers a small measure of modesty, maybe pulling the covers back up or putting something on, but it's too hot tonight anyway. So she stays where she is: in his arms, in her bed, in their little limbo where minutes tick by and truths slip out and nothing matters in the morning.

"I don't remember ever celebrating Thanksgiving." His voice is rough after prolonged silence but she can detect the wavering vulnerability under it. She's been getting better at that lately: reading him. And he reads her like a bedtime story, easily comprehensible and accurately predictable. She can't remember the last time she had known someone so well; the last time she had let someone know her this well in return.

She sighs and waits for silence to settle upon them again.

* * *

"Hetty doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving."

They have a pattern, and unspoken, easy-to-follow rules. She volunteers some painful truth, he reciprocates as a sign of solidarity and they don't bring anyone else into their little bubble. It's a pattern; it's their pattern. Except now he's speaking first and it's about Hetty and she doesn't know what to say.

"She's just like us." He muses, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan's lazy spinning. "No family, no love, nothing." She wants to tell him that of course they have family – that they _are_ family. She wants to tell him that he's not unloved. She wants to tell him that he doesn't have everything but he has something – someone.

But just because he's breaking the rules doesn't mean she will too.

"Maybe we should bring her turkey," She offers instead and regrets the words the moment they pass her lips. There is no _we_. There's Kensi, and Callen and at night there's Kensi _and_ Callen but there's no _we_ , there's no bringing people turkey on Thanksgiving, there's no domesticity.

But then he speaks up and she loses her precarious footing on the edge of this cliff they've chosen to stand in.

"Maybe we should."

* * *

"How's it like, to love someone?"

His words drag her out of the awaiting darkness where she hopes to rest. She shakes away the last bits of sleep and focuses on keeping her features emotionless and her thoughts organized.

"It's horrible," She finally decides, shoulders loosening from their earlier tense position.

"Huh," He says in acknowledgement, and she finds herself tempted to shift and turn in his arms to face him – another thing they don't do. "I wasn't expecting that."

She pushes past her wondering – why? Why wasn't he expecting that from someone who's been repeatedly hurt by love? – and questions him instead. "Wouldn't you know?"

He's quiet for a long time and she's almost ready to give up and drift off. Then he shrugs.

"Nah. Don't think I've ever loved anyone."

He has, she knows he has, but this isn't a therapy session, this is sex and sharing and sleeping, and that's it. There's no space for solving their issues – no time, either. She can't face him so she turns to peek at the alarm clock. It's three in the morning.

Just a few more hours.

* * *

"Tell me what it's like," He urges her. Her eyes snap open and she finds herself observing the ceiling again; she's long given up on sleep but it had been nice to rest her eyes.

She knows what he's asking of her; she just doesn't know why. But she's done more based on less so she sorts through her thoughts and answers his curious question. She needs him to know how ugly it can be.

"It's like you're not yourself anymore. It's like someone's pushed their way into your heart and you can't tell if you like it, if you're happy, because you like _them_ and you're happy for _them_. It's like suddenly, everything you do affects them and you have to think about everything because they're in the picture. And you don't even mind, you don't even see that you're not yourself, you don't even realize that you're being taken over."

_You don't even mind that you're losing yourself._

She'd lost herself; had become a host to someone else's welfare, solely existing for the good of a loved one.

"You become someone else, and you would hate that person, you really would, but you don't even see that until it's too late because when you're that someone else, _they_ like you and that's all that matters."

"It's horrible." She concludes, breathing hard just from the memory of being taken over by the all-encompassing sensation they call love.

"It's a parasite," She blurts out, surprising both of them. She doesn't know where it's coming from but she needs him to know how horrible it is. "It takes and takes from you until you can't give any more, until there's nothing _left_ to give and _still_ you find something to give. And when you're empty and hollow and all dried up, when there's really, really nothing left, that's when it ends."

The entire room is silent – the night is silent. There's the creak of the fan and the harsh sounds of her shuddering breaths, but the night is so, so quiet that it almost feels like their little bubble has expanded to include the whole world and evict everyone else, leaving only them and a vast, dark night.

"I used to think it was take and give." He says dryly in that way of his, and she can't help but laugh, even if it is a dark, mirthless laugh.

"That's a nice dream," She mutters. She'd thought it was take and give, too; had expected it to be. The whole time she was giving, giving, giving, she'd thought she was taking in return. And then one day there was nothing to give and nothing to be taken and she had been left empty.

"Is that all it is?" He presses on. "A dream?"

"Yeah. I guess." She sighs helplessly. "I don't know. Why do you keep asking, anyway?"

He's pushed her too far; she can't keep thinking about all of this anymore. She hopes that's enough; that her outburst will just keep him off her back until the sun rises and they go about their own lives.

"Because I don't want to just take from you."

She pulls a pillow over her head even as she moves closer to his side.

* * *

"Do you think Hetty's a casserole person?"

She pushes the pillow off her face and blows stray curls off her face. "I don't know. She's a tea person. Does anyone eat casserole with tea?"

He barks out a quick burst of laughter, as if taken by surprise. "We should bring her turkey." He decides, and she can almost _feel_ his grin.

"It's Thanksgiving Day. There isn't a turkey left in all of L.A." She retorts logically.

"We should take some from Sam. He's got a huge turkey." He persists, seemingly set on them bringing their elderly superior turkey on Thanksgiving, _together_.

"He's going to need all of it." She argues and turns on her side so that she's facing the wall, hoping to send a clear signal that they're done. To her surprise, she feels the mattress dip as he moves to mirror her position.

One hand rests on her hip, fingers splayed across bare skin. She closes her eyes and concentrates on breathing evenly. It doesn't help her block out the feeling of his warm hand on her hypersensitive skin, or the way her entire body is on alert, pressed against his.

She starts talking, starts telling him everything with no filter and no edits and it's a nightmare.

"You can't just wake up one day and decide you want _normal._ You can't just wake up and decide that you want normal _with me_. It was good and it was fun and it was even nice, but I can't be your midlife crisis when you decide that hey, you might want to give this whole love thing a shot, maybe with your fuck buddy, and see where it-"

She is cut off by his sudden movement. One second she's on her side and the next she's on her back, his hand gripping her arm as he hovers above her.

"You are not just fun." He seethes. "You are not my midlife crisis. And you are _not_ ," He's almost growling as his eyes flash in anger, "my fuck buddy."

Two seconds.

That's all it takes for her to process his outburst and come up with one of her own. She pushes herself up and frees her arm from his grasp to use both hands to push him off her.

"You sure? Because it sure as hell feels that way! Two years of you slipping into _my_ house, _my_ bed when you're upset or angry or strung out, so that you can use me as a sounding board and then leave me to wake up alone in a cold bed every single morning after. What the hell, Callen?!"

She pushes herself out of bed, grabs a shirt from the floor and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her. He's hot on her heels and out of the bedroom by the time she's snatching up a pair of discarded jeans on the floor.

"What is wrong with you?" He demands, snatching her keys out of her other hand while she single-handedly pulls up her pants.

" _Me_? How about you, mister-360? How the hell does someone go from lone wolf to talking about love in four days? And how is it that your _miraculous_ change of mind just happens to take place the exact week we investigate a middle-aged agent who died all alone in the world?"

He hasn't made the connection – hadn't, until she had thrown it in his face. Frozen in spot, his pause gives her enough time to get decent, get her keys and get to the door.

"Kensi, wait-" He goes after her, catching her right before she walks out. She turns around, eyes shining and shoulders dropped. It's as if all the fight has left her.

"I can't just go along with you, Callen. I can't just let you use me."

And just as suddenly as this whole storm had started, it's over.

The door swings shut behind her.

* * *

She drives, and drives, and drives.

She is _so_ angry at him right now. Angry at him for taking her home from her – that's where she always goes to hide and now the entire place is so _him_. Angry at him for making her feel this way – two years of suppressing her feelings and having the equivalent of one-night-stands and _now_ he chooses to bring this up. Angry at him for not even knowing what he was doing – it would have been so much easier to paint him as the villain if he'd just _used_ her.

She's angry at herself too, of course. She promised herself she'd never be used; promised herself she'd never love again; promised herself she'd never be _weak_.

The sun is rising and the streets are deserted; inside tightly shut houses, families are sitting down and counting their blessings and sharing turkey.

So she drives to the only family she knows.

* * *

"Miss Blye. I must say, I was not expecting you today."

She stands on the porch, fidgeting with her hands and shifting her weight from leg to leg. Her heart is racing and her head is pounding but this is where she should be.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Hetty. Sorry I didn't bring anything; no turkeys left, you know?" _And I wasn't the one all psyched up about bringing you turkey in the first place_.

"Ah, the annual grocery sell-out. It is ever so unfortunate to be on a last-minute turkey hunt. Come in, dearie." The older woman opens her door widely and ushers her agent in, certain that she's in store for quite the morning.

Oh, well, it had been shaping up to be a boring morning anyway.


	2. II

"You are aware that the agency frowns upon inter-office relationships, particularly those between active field agents."

Hetty doesn't question her, merely states the obvious. Of course she knows it's frowned upon; who hasn't heard the horror story of a top agent being compromised by his or her emotions only to lose sight of their goal and get caught in the crossfire? But it's not like she wanted this to happen, for crying out loud. It just _happened._ And it's not even her fault, not really.

Not that she can blame Hetty for the disapproving look she's currently on the receiving end of; her boss doesn't know anything, only that she's here because of 'personal issues with Callen', as she'd phrased it. Not that she would put it beyond Hetty's all-knowing mind and all-seeing eye to know all the sordid details of their messed-up… relationship? She doesn't know what it is. She'd come to think of it as a benefits situation after the first few times it had happened and they hadn't even addressed it, but with feelings thrown into the mix…

"It just happened, Hetty." She picks her words carefully; Hetty doesn't need to know that since the very first night Callen had shown up in her bedroom, she'd been willing and very, very eager. "And it didn't change anything; we didn't even talk about it. We've _never_ talked about this." She insists upon the woman's slightly doubtful look.

"And everything was fine – it's been two years; if anything had changed between us, someone would've noticed. You, or Sam, or anyone. But nothing did."

"And then this week, we investigated that case – the Malone case, a lone wolf who'd been a solo agent all his life. Team player, good leader, but still somehow detached. No personal life whatsoever. Callen's age, Callen's height; hell, he even dealt with Russians. And I think…"

"You think that Mister Callen was subconsciously affected by these distressing similarities." Hetty supplies when words fail her.

She nods mutely, letting Hetty go on.

"You think that perhaps, Mister Callen has realized just how sorely he lacks a fulfilling personal life. That he has somehow, whether consciously or subconsciously, decided to avoid the same path. And that he has, unknowingly yet quite determinedly, decided to court you to… change his life, for the better."

It takes a moment, but Kensi nods reluctantly. Yes, that's what she thinks: that Callen is unintentionally targeting her as his variable – as that one part of his life that will keep him from becoming John Malone, lone wolf in life and in death, mourned only briefly and mildly by his co-workers, having earned nothing more than respect and a smidgen of affection.

"And why, Miss Blye," Hetty raises her tea-cup to her lips to take a sip, motioning for Kensi to follow suite. "Do you think that?"

Kensi almost chokes on her tea.

"Because!" She sputters, earning herself a reproachful cluck from her superior. She sets the teacup down and straightens her spine, inhaling then exhaling calmly. "Because." She tries again.

"Because?" Hetty prompts.

"Because…" And that's when she has to face the facts: because anyone who has ever loved her has used her, in a way. Not always intentionally, not always maliciously, but the fact remains that at the end of the day, she gives and they take and then it's over. "Because he's using me." She nearly whispers, eyes reluctantly trained on the view of Hetty's backyard. It's one hell of a backyard, that's for sure.

"I have found," Hetty stands up. "A little time in nature can work wonders for the convoluted mind. Some fresh air can clear your head, let you see the basic truth that was there all along."

Confused, Kensi remains in her seat. As she passes by her agent, Hetty lays a reassuring hand on Kensi's shoulder. "You know what you have always known, Kensi. You have just lost sight of the truth."

And with those cryptic words, she retreats into her home, leaving Kensi staring into space.

_You have just lost sight of the truth_.

What _is_ the truth?

* * *

Her mind spins in circles. It takes her round and round and round. It brings her from questions to answers that lead to questions to unanswered questions that beg more questions.

The truth… is that no one she loved ever meant to hurt her.

No, that's not good enough.

The truth is… she's always loved too much.

No. Not even too much was ever enough.

The truth is that she… is just meant to be alone.

No. Hetty wouldn't have left her alone to come to that conclusion.

Oh, for crying out loud. What the hell is the truth?

The truth is that the sky is blue. The earth is round. Life happens. Life sucks. Love sucks. Love hurts. Love can be fun. What she and Callen had was fun. Callen was nice. Callen was good. Callen never hurt her.

Callen has never hurt her.

Callen would never hurt her.

And that's the truth she's known all along, since the very first day they met.

* * *

"Miss Blye," Her superior sighs, breaking her out of her reverie and bringing her back to the darkening sky. "When I left you alone to find the truth, I assumed it would be enough to spur you into action."

"Callen would never hurt me," She finally says aloud. It's the truth that's been running across her mind all morning and afternoon and evening. "But my dad would never have hurt me. And the Jack I knew, he'd rather die than hurt me. People change, Hetty. This Callen would never hurt me but _people change_." She laughs bitterly.

"I told him last night that I haven't celebrated Thanksgiving since my father died. And it's true, because it was _so_ painful that first Thanksgiving without him, the mere idea of trying to be thankful for anything when my father was _dead_. And the year Jack came back, I tried. I tried so hard to be thankful to have him back, to celebrate that. I cooked and I _never_ cook, Hetty. I cooked and I set everything up and I tried all I could try. And still… it was almost worse than not having my father. He was there but he wasn't, because he didn't _want_ to be there. My father would have wanted to be with me, he just couldn't; Jack, he could've been with me, he just didn't want to."

She chokes out a sob even as the weight on her shoulders lightens up, as if she's been carrying this confession with her for the last God knows how many years and now it's out. It's out of her and it's gone, gone into the air.

Hetty eyes her with something akin to sympathy in her eyes, only it's probably empathy. She isn't self-absorbed enough to believe that she's the only one to ever have lost a loved one or two. Hetty has been through hell – she doesn't know which circle but she knows.

Eventually, Hetty sets down her customary tea-cup and begins to speak, somewhat hesitantly.

"It seems, my dear," Hetty reaches for the hand she rests upon the table; her superior isn't much for physical contact, but she welcomes it. "That you are, quite clearly, haunted by the ghosts of Thanksgivings past."

She laughs darkly, humorlessly.

"Dickens, Hetty?"

"In a matter of speaking." Hetty concedes. "Charles had some things right, dearie. Sometimes – rarely, we are given a second chance before it is too late. And perhaps, as they like to say, the third time is the charm." She suggests.

Slowly coming to terms with these new revelations, she throws Hetty a questioning look. "I thought the agency highly frowns upon inter-office relationships." She quotes dryly.

"Frowns upon, yes," Hetty gives her an almost… cheeky look. "But it remains a superior's prerogative to allow these relationships, based on the agents' professionalism, of course. If two agents have managed to carry on a personal relationship for two years without compromising their work, their superior would have to concede that it is strictly a matter of personal consideration and none of the agency's business."

"And now, Miss Blye, I must bid you goodbye. The sun is setting and I believe you have a young man to meet, as I have a prime minister to keep a dinner appointment with."

Stunned, Kensi can only stare at Hetty in speechless surprise.

"Well, hurry up then, dearie!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hetty befriends VIPs easier than we befriend strangers on the Internet.
> 
> Off with you, now. The last chapter is up.


	3. III

Miraculously, the roads are still empty. People are probably stuffed and stuck at home. Still, Kensi pushes her luck with the speed and resists the urge to run all three red lights she hits on the way home. Here's hoping Callen's still there…

Sure, she could call him to make sure, but it'd kind of ruin everything. _"Hey, you still at my place? Okay, stay put, I've got an emotional declaration to make_. _I'll be there in five_."

It just doesn't work.

Though as she rounds the last corner on the way home, she wonders if she should've driven out to Callen's sparsely-furnished house instead. Why would he have stuck around her home all day after she'd kept him up all night and then gotten into a screaming match with him before accusing him of something horrible then leaving?

Okay, in all fairness, he'd kept her up all night too and he'd started the real fight and he _had_ done a 360 on her and she had left for both their sakes.

They'd both screwed up.

Now she can only hope they can get a second chance.

* * *

She returns to an empty home, haunted by wisps of ghosts.

There are pictures of her dad, memories of Jack and traces of Callen, traces _everywhere_. Remnants of their take-out meal sit on the kitchen counter. Newspapers, ones she doesn't read, are on the coffee table. When she desperately bursts into her bedroom, his shirt that she'd worn remains in the laundry hamper.

Callen is everywhere in her life now. At some point, he'd slowly started leaving an imprint of himself in every part of her life. And she doesn't want it gone; can't get rid of it and wouldn't choose to.

In her home, the one that is almost hers and Callen's, she finds proof. Proof that they can spend evenings together without driving each other crazy. Proof that they can wake up together and go about their routine. Proof and hope that maybe, just maybe, this might work out between them.

She's out of her door and back in the driver's seat as fast as possible, flooring the engine as she races to hit the main road. She knows where she's going now – it wouldn't have mattered even if she had gone to Callen's; the house would've been as empty as hers.

There's only one place Callen would go to right now.

* * *

She turns into the darkened hacienda, searching for signs of life. She knows he's here, and she's got a pretty good idea of where exactly she'll find him, but an illuminated window wouldn't hurt.

She hops out of the car and into the building, calling out for him even as she heads for his couch. "Callen? Callen, I know you're here!"

She stops at the foot of the couch. There's a pillow and a messed up blanket, but no Callen. "Damn it," she curses under her breath, her hands coming up to frame her face. Now what?

"Disappointed?"

The voice is familiar even if it's empty and flat, lacking its usual dry cockiness. Her hands drop to her sides as she turns around, an unspoken _please be him, please be him, please be him_ chant going through her mind.

It is. It's him.

She blows out a heavy, relieved exhale. His eyes look dull but his infuriating smirk is in place, and he carries a cup of tea in his hands. Of course.

Callen turns slightly to set the cup down onto the desk next to him – hers, she realizes – and leans against it casually, waiting for her to break the silence.

So she does, albeit awkwardly.

"Hi."

His lips twitch, presumably fighting a smile of amusement. She winces; it does sound lame.

"Hi yourself." He retorts, arms crossed. They lapse into silence again as she works to organize her thoughts. She wrings her hands and hears her own breathing. Her heart is beating so, so fast.

"I'm sorry." She blurts. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." To her horror, a choked sob escapes her. One hand flies up to her mouth to muffle the sound. He moves to close the distance between them and holds his hands out to her but she raises a hand of her own to hold him off. She has to say this.

"What I said was horrible, and wrong, and biased. I let my past influence what I thought of you, and I thought some terrible things. I'm just… I'm sorry. I know I was wrong, and I'm sorry."

He's crosses over to her in three quick strides and wraps her in his arms.

"Kens," He sighs, holding her close as she attempts to calm herself down, to control her emotions. That's her job, that's her talent. So why can't she control these emotions?

Because it's different this time.

"It's different." She shares with him, tentatively wrapping her arms around him in return. "You and me, we're different. And sometimes different can be scary. And I'm sorry I let that scare me."

"Kensi," He sighs again, pulling back to smooth back wild hair. "Please stop. It wasn't just your fault. I know it must've seemed crazy that I could've gone from… me to _this_ , and just as we got that case. But you have to know it wasn't just the case. I'm not gonna lie: a very small part of this is because of the case. But what I feel for you, I didn't just develop overnight." He pauses, lightens the mood with a familiar lazy grin.

"I didn't just go to you for no reason that first night, you know. You were driving me crazy." Taking a cue from him, she sits down on a desk and challenges him.

"In a good way or a bad way?"

He laughs shortly, shaking his head. "Both. Definitely both." They share a smile before Kensi's eyes start flitting about the empty bullpen. Silence falls upon them.

"So what do we do now?" She finally finds the courage to question their next move. He has feelings for her and she has feelings for him and given some time, they'll probably love each other. Maybe they already do. But they're grown-ups now and they've – or at least, she's – learned the hard way that love doesn't overcome all.

He settles down on his couch and waves her over. She hesitates for a moment before sitting down next to him. "We'll work it out, Kensi. We'll make this work." He tells her, and she resists the childish urge to hold out a pinkie and ask him to promise her that they will.

She can't make him pinkie promise because pinkie promises are made to be broken once you leave behind a certain stage of childhood. She can't make him swear because words mean nothing to them, not with what they do day in, day out. She can't ask him for any guarantee, any assurance.

All she can do is trust him now the way she trusts he'll never hurt her.

So she leans into him and lets him wrap an arm around his waist the way he never has, basking in the normalcy of it all. It feels quaint and domestic and couple-y, things she hasn't felt in so long.

"Okay." She says on an exhale. He stills for a moment before pulling her closer.

"Okay."

* * *

Later that night, they stare at the same creaky ceiling fan, her on her back and him propped up on one arm, studying her in a way they've never allowed each other to.

"So," He speaks up, apparently finally having seen enough for him to settle down next to her. "What made you come back?" She smiles.

" _Who_." She corrects. He chuckles.

"Should've seen that coming."

"Yeah, Hetty has her ways." She agrees, thinking of the old woman all alone in her home, all that wisdom and experience constantly on her mind. This time, when Callen suggests a festive house-call, she finds herself eager to agree.

"Maybe we should bring her some fruitcake for Christmas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fixed it! I fixed CaKe! The most delicious of all ships. Unfortunately, it's pretty sunken, isn't it? Curse ye, Densi of the Mop-Haired and Forced Chemistry.
> 
> If anyone's interested, they do bring Hetty fruitcake for Christmas. And you can read all about it in the one-shot sequel.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a cute one-shot that would end somewhere around the 3K word mark with Kensi and Callen bringing Hetty turkey, but evidently the characters took my angst and ran with it.
> 
> Here, have three chapters of angst and relationship issues instead. Also, no turkey.


End file.
